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Monday, December 5, 2011

Over the last couple of months, I have transformed from workaholic, to android who does nothing but work, eat, sleep and crap, into a full-on BORG. Old habits don't die hard with me, they live on, and on, and on, and effing ON. They are as immortal as the Borg themselves.

As a sort of wake up call, I started tracking my hours very diligently. Let's just say the words "a lot" to describe the number per week are similar to saying that the sun is "kinda big". I'm starting to think this is just a part of my personality. The whole, I'm gonna-give-1000-million-% until I waste away into a pastey-faced-imp-like-monotone-world-dominating-psycho who can plug her head into her computer and tells people resistance is futile. (It is you know, totally and utterly futile.)

It's already been 2 weeks since
Thanksgiving and my obsession with staying on top of all-things-work
has kept me away from the ole blog.

Thanksgiving and Christmas are always bitter sweet for me. I LOVE them. I play music, I make cookies, I get all "tra-la-la, it's Christmas, time to break out the ELF movie and cozy up". But I'm also very "where the F*** are those F***ing scientist Mother-F***ers hiding, and why haven't they invented teleportation yet?" (Yeah, I'm talking to you mr., pardon me, DR. physicist. Sheldons of the world, UNITE and get your asses on this!)

This year, like last year, I took a little time out to celebrate the day
the pilgrims sat down and shared a meal with an indigenous group of
unsuspecting people who we later slaughtered mercilessly and forced to
live on small plots of land while we sold them "fire water". I
mean... we celebrated all the things we're thankful for.

This is in fact, the last time that I'll be going to the country house with a band of merry x-pats, as it has (sniff sniff) finally been sold off (the house, not the merry band). I loved building a crackling fire, enjoying the hazy mornings with the clop-clop-clop of a horse-drawn carriage, and all the cooking, laughing, forest-walking, horse-riding, champagne-tasting, and other good things that accompany the country life.

I'm pleased with our last hurrah at the house. I have to say that the cooking, of which I didn't participate much, was even better than ever. Our "breakfast crew" has matured in their cooking endeavors, stopped bickering and finally decided (after much tribulation), that "French Toast" (sweet) is better than "Eggy Toast" (savory). The Franco-Ameri-Brit cooking styles meshed perfectly together to create the biggest god damn delicious turkey you ever saw, complete with every side dish known to man.

While all those people slaved in the kitchen, some of us whistled out the door to go horseback riding. I am in love with horses. (Not like that you dirty sod.) I had only one previous experience horseback riding when I was a teen, and it wasn't nearly so spiritual and fulfilling.

Dear lord. WHO, tell me, WHO wears a halter top to go horseback riding?? Well. This girl did. It was a hot summer day, but that is no excuse for my idiocy. We started trotting a bit, and all was well. It was around the second gallop that I realized... hmm... it's a little... chilly. No, more like NIPPY. Yes. As in, my shirt had untied and I was pulling a Lady Godiva.

I wish I could say that I was graceful. I wish it had been something like this:

The reality is it was really more like this:

Moron, that I was, I started screaming and grabbing desperately at the pile of fabric around my waist that used to be a shirt, at which point EVERYONE turns around and starts staring and my horse decides to go even faster to the point of almost bucking me off because I've decided that modesty is more important than life. Also, I forgot to pull on the reins and actually stop the horse. Like I said. Imbecile.

So this time went much better to say the least. Firstly, it was cold out, so we were all bundled. The chances of my pulling another Lady Godiva were slim indeed. Secondly, I wasn't 16 anymore, and figured out how to steer and stop the horse.

Finally, I really bonded with that beautiful brown horse. We were friends, whatever her name was that I've now forgotten, and I. I can't wait to try this again!

*UPDATED* I can't BELIEVE I forgot this part. We had the most CUT-THROAT game of boys vs girls Charades you can imagine. Dear god. I thought these people were going to riot. I blame the brit who stoked the fires of competition, you know who you are.

There was screaming, and pointing of fingers left & right. NO NO NO, that word is NOT fair!!! I have a PENIS, how the *hell* am I supposed to know who wrote the fucking "Princess Diaries"!! (Incidentally, it was this woman.)

I stepped in and tried to be the arbiter, but, to no avail. Because the girls were kicking such serious ass, we had to change the rules to appease the male-folk lol. Even if I think this is our last game of Charades, I'm sure we'll come up with new and better ways to instigate genitalia-rivalry.

The best part of the weekend however, wasn't the amazing food, or the delicious Chateau du Petit Thouars wine provided, or even the post-dinner dance party that the Brits weren't quite drunk enough to participate in.

The best part was my shirt not coming off. J/k. I wasn't sad. I wasn't all "woe is me, I miss my family". I was positively on cloud 9. Of course, I missed them, but the happiness won out :)

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Discovering the truth about Parisians... one humiliating story at a time.
This blog is a caricature and I am the self-appointed queen of exaggerationland.
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